


Corsica

by limitless_ocean



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012)
Genre: M/M, frobismith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitless_ocean/pseuds/limitless_ocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frobisher writes a letter to Sixsmith, reminding him of the times they shared in Corsica, where they first met, first kissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corsica

**Author's Note:**

> Having listened to piano music and reading poetry excessively these days, I felt I should start writing my own fanfiction for once!
> 
> Could be terribly wrong and utterly OOC - haven't read the book yet. Still stuck in my amazon-list.
> 
> (http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_mqurpzA6DT1qjycpvo1.mp3#_=_ has been what I was listening to while writing. It's Liszt's Dreams of Love.)

My dearest Sixsmith,

Realized that the ink was more _furiously_ spread this time than just artificially overelaborated once I opened your letter. Still, that didn’t help to ease the challenge of reading your words. As my eyes first made their way across the lines, I was perplexed by how hard it eventually turned out to be. Yes, I may have used your unabashed handwriting to explain to myself the difficulty of understanding your words. But to be honest with you, Sixsmith, it was the content that spoiled my brain. I know I should –  from the start – have expected words of anger instead of euphoria for my latest journey. How could I think you’d be euphoric of me seeking fame, when you are the one left alone in Cambridge? At least I had left you the note that you would find me in Brighton. After I had explained to myself that it was wrong to have left you without any appropriate “farewell”, I felt a sudden burst of sadness and – you won’t believe me – _guilt_ overcome my little heart.

Needed to calm myself down, so I sat on the piano for awhile. Nothing but short, sickening, dissonant chords – Schönberg would’ve been _impressed_ – filled the atmosphere that surrounded me, until I couldn’t withstand the hideous sight of my counterproductive fingers hopelessly stumbling over the keys anymore. I was forced to move my eyes across the room. Hoped to see you standing there, smiling. Truth be told, even your in disenchantment shaking head would have helped to cheer me up. Through the window I spotted the sea wrapped in a haze. It reminded me of Corsica,  the first time we saw each other, the first time we kissed. My lips found a smirk in those thoughts, my fingers inspiration to create a beautiful, melodious work, _yours._ I was tempted to entitle it _“Liebestraum”_ – a dream of love – if Liszt hadn’t been faster. Furthermore, it’s definitely wasn’t a dream, it’s our past. Called it “Corsica” eventually. Sat there a day and a night. Didn’t care for dusk nor dawn. Couldn’t have left it with any imperfections, unlike myself. Wouldn’t have dared answering you without knowing I had an appropriate “sorry” for you for when I came home. It feels as if my work has been done here already, though I haven’t even met my employer yet. I wish I was nobody’s amanuensis but yours. You wouldn’t tell me what keys to press; your grin and eyes and little, stupid and oh so gorgeous gestures would.

Well, since you’re not able to hear nor play it – such a shame – I decided to put it into words:


End file.
